


Many Meetings

by EarendilEldar



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Awkward Tension, Dysfunctional Family, Family Bonding, Family Issues, Guilt, Love, M/M, Rebirth, Second Chances, Undying Lands, Valinor, and you thought Celebrimbor's life was a tragedy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-08 04:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18887353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarendilEldar/pseuds/EarendilEldar
Summary: Against all expectations, Maedhros finds himself released from the Halls of Mandos and returned to Tirion.  Confused and doubting this decision of the Valar, but with the words of Manwe that something was unfinished, Maedhros makes his way toward the city to find what he is meant to accomplish and maybe be permitted to return to Mandos where at least he doesn't feel isolated and despised.





	1. Son

He scarcely remembered any of this place, though he’d been born and raised in Tirion.  He felt small, smaller than he’d ever felt, here in the shadows of the Calacirya… quite something for someone known for his height since his earliest days.  But it wasn’t a physical smallness so much as a psychological one, a feeling of being out of place, not belonging.  Dispossessed.

Why was he here again?  Why was he anywhere?  What were the Lords thinking?  He should just turn around now and ask them to change their minds – but that Lord Manwë himself had said there was work left unfinished.  He would not say just what, of course, but maybe if he figured out the riddle and finished whatever the work… he could be left to rest, maybe even peacefully.

He dared not approach the city from its rear gate, lest someone take him for a lone invader.  Which, he imagined, any who recognized him likely would.  And it would hardly be possible not to recognize him, not one such as he!  ‘Rehoused, indeed,’ he thought bitterly, looking down his arm with a grimace.

As he came by the road around the city that lead on into a woodland, he passed a fine house of green stone with a great garden all round.  There was a dark-haired Elf, robed in green, in the garden, but it seemed the Elf marked him not and so he decided not to draw attention to himself.  Instead he continued on the way into the woods.  There he felt more sheltered and less observed, and yet much less alone. 

For a moment, he stopped and stood, closing his eyes and just listening to the peaceful forest.  Birds chirped and twittered.  Leaves stirred and whispered in the secret language of plants.  Somewhere among the trees he could hear a harp being plucked softly, and quite skillfully.  Did he dare follow the music?  But then, harpers had always been close to his heart.  Perhaps this was a call of sorts.

He went as quietly as possible, drawn on by the gentle music.  It was not a tune he remembered, but the proficiency of the minstrel was exceptional.  He’d not heard the like since his dearest brother’s despair robbed him of his will to make song.  At last, he approached a clearing in the wood and found the source of the sound he’d followed.  There sat a tall Elf, looking very much at his ease, playing on a silver harp.  The harp he knew at once; its bearer, however, was a stranger to him.

Who was this, then, who played his brother’s instrument, and with skill to match?

After a few moments, without stopping his music or even glancing up, the musician spoke up.  “Come forward and listen if you like, friend.  There is no need to hide as if this were some secret council.”

Friend?  Could either of them know that, though?

Warily, he stepped forward through the trees.  “I recognize that harp, it is truly ancient.  A relic returned to the shores on which it was made.  You, though, I know not, friend,” he said, wondering that he still had a voice that worked.

The Elf stopped playing as he looked up to see the newcomer.  He carefully set the harp aside and rose slowly, as if in wonder.  “Your pardon, but you do know me, though you have not seen me since I was little more than a stripling.  Elrond Peredhel, my Lord Maedhros.”

Maedhros swallowed hard.  “By the Valar…,” he breathed.  “I knew my brother’s harp and I knew the parallel of his skill with it….  I had not thought to meet you here, though.  You were just a child, and your brother….”

Elrond nodded, noting how Maedhros’s gaze settled again on the harp that had been Maglor’s constant companion for so long.  When Maedhros glanced up again at Elrond he almost seemed less tall as the grimness that had always enveloped him faded into what looked more like ages-long sadness. 

“You look so grown and wise, Peredhel.  How princely…,” Maedhros said quietly.  He wondered if something about this meeting was the work unfinished, though that hardly seemed possible. 

“Will you not sit a while?” Elrond invited, sensing that Maedhros was deeply unsettled.  Considering that no one had ever expected to see a son of Fëanor set foot in Eldamar again, it was hardly surprising. 

“Are you certain my company is welcome?” Maedhros asked hesitantly.

“For my part, yes, you are welcome,” Elrond said. 

There were two chairs side-by-side in the clearing, carved where they stood from the bole of a fallen tree.  Elrond turned to move the silver harp that he’d set aside as Maedhros approached, but then Maedhros spoke.

“Might I -?  Well… not play it, obviously, but… hold it, for a moment?”

“Of course,” Elrond said, offering the harp carefully.

Maedhros cradled it against his shorter forearm and ran his fingertips over the wrought silver, gently caressing the taught strings.  Without warning, his eyes suddenly filled with tears and he gasped back a sob.  Elrond quickly sat close beside the elder and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, knowing exactly what it was to miss a beloved brother.

“It is Makalaurë should be here, not I,” Maedhros whispered harshly.  “He was gentle and good… and our thrice-damnéd father cursed him and all of us to nothing but one misery greater than the last!  Can you tell me, Elrond, what became of him?  That awful jewel burnt his flesh as it did mine, but I think he would not have fallen to the despair that took me.”

Elrond sighed.  “That jewel is now in the keeping of Lord Ulmo under the waves.  Maglor… none know.  I suspect he has long since faded,” Elrond said gently.  “Some say his spirit dwells on the shores and he sings eternally.  Perhaps that is not so bad.”

“I would he found peace,” Maedhros murmured.  “He loved you boys so.  I think you became the only true happiness he ever knew.  Thank you for keeping his harp…,” Maedhros said, handing it back to Elrond with just a slight hesitation to let go of it. 

“You both were fathers to us.  That has not been forgotten,” Elrond said.

“You would not have needed us to be fathers had we never assailed your people,” Maedhros pointed out.

“And you could have left us to die in a wood, but you did not,” Elrond rejoined.  He regretted the comparison to Dior’s twins immediately, though, when Maedhros ducked his head. 

“I would have saved them, too, from my own monstrous brothers’ intentions.  I might sooner have been forgiven for ridding the world of those three brigands than taking that terrible oath – and I would have, had your grandfather not done it first.”

“Maedhros… I would tell you something I have never spoken of to another,” Elrond said, seeing the unendurable weight of guilt that ages in Mandos had not seemed to lessen.  “You and Maglor raised my brother and me with care and love.  I, myself, have no recollection of the face of Earendil.  When I tried my hardest to be a good father to my own children, it was you and Maglor I sought to emulate.  Since my coming to these shores, I have not ventured to the tower of Elwing but remained here in Tirion amongst my family.  It was you who made me who I became, able to fight and lead and counsel and love.  I can speak for none other than myself, but you were a good father, and for that at least you should bear no guilt or regret.”

Maedhros was silent for a long time, regarding Elrond closely.  “I spoke wrongly earlier,” he said eventually.  “Not princely, but kingly have you grown.  And what of your brother?  The elder, was he not?  By some 9 minutes, I seem to recall him saying frequently.”

Elrond smiled, having not thought of Elros’s tease in a very long time.  “Aye, and always declared himself 9 minutes the wiser, but I never marked it in him.  Alas, neither prince nor king have I ever claimed to be, but Elros was a king, the first of that title amongst the Men of Númenor.”

“I know not of Númenor, but see that your choices diverged,” Maedhros said sadly.  “Tell me of the life you’ve led, Elrond, and your greatest joys in it?” he asked.


	2. Nephew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Atatoron" - My own made-up Quenya because I've yet to see extended family terms, "ata" (father) + "toron" (brother).

As Celebrimbor returned home, he wondered where was his husband who would ordinarily have been fussing with the garden on such a fine day.  Erestor’s weeding fork was sitting on the walkway beside a bed of peach-coloured irises, so perhaps he’d only stepped away for a moment.  But Erestor never left things lying about carelessly and he would have been more likely to put his tools aside properly, even for the briefest interlude. 

Celebrimbor went inside, wondering also at the closed front door which nearly always stood open to welcome any comers.  Celebrimbor began to feel uneasy and immediately went to the library, hoping to find Erestor there.  That door was also closed, but as Celebrimbor walked in, he found Erestor stood at his desk with a stack of books, fully engrossed in one.  Erestor didn’t seem to notice his presence, so Celebrimbor stepped over and put a hand on Erestor’s back.  He certainly wasn’t expecting Erestor to spin round and whack him with the weighty tome in his hands.

“Gods!  Celeb, I’m sorry!” Erestor gasped, putting the book down at once. 

“I’ve never been attacked with a book before,” Celebrimbor muttered, rubbing at his shoulder.  “Eres, what’s wrong?  You left your weeding fork in the garden, you’ve closed the doors, and now you’re jumping like you’re in a forest of spiders.”

Erestor took a step back and a deep breath.  “Nothing.  I’m sure it’s not anything.”

“Eres,” Celebrimbor said, putting his arms around his husband, “tell me what troubles you?”

Erestor sighed.  “I thought I saw someone while I was in the garden.  I’m sure I was mistaken, though.  It cannot have been who I thought.”

Now Celebrimbor was growing alarmed.  “Who did you think you saw?” he asked, holding Erestor closer.

“Your eldest uncle,” Erestor said quietly.  “Unless there be some other Elf of such a height with red hair and but one hand.”

Celebrimbor stilled for a moment.  “I’m not certain that’s possible,” he murmured.  “But then, I wasn’t certain my own return was possible of a time.”  Celebrimbor took a long breath.  “Do you know where he went?” he asked as calmly as he could.

Erestor shook his head.  “I saw him just as he was going toward the forest, but to the city or the harbor, I know not.”

Celebrimbor nodded and kissed Erestor’s cheek.  “Wait here for me, alright?”

“What do you mean?” Erestor said, immediately suspicious.

“I mean I’m going to find out who passed this way that frightened you so, that’s all, my beautiful counselor,” Celebrimbor said reassuringly. 

“Celeb,” Erestor said, grasping Celebrimbor’s arm.  “There are things I don’t think I will ever truly forget, even here.  Menengroth not least among them.”

Again, Celebrimbor pulled Erestor into a tight hug.  “I know, beloved, I know,” he murmured against Erestor’s ear.  “Nothing like that will happen here, I swear to you.  I’ll just go and see, shall I, and be home for supper?”

“I know this is a land of peace, and one day I shall be used to that.  But please be careful?” Erestor pled.

“Always,” Celebrimbor promised before going back out of the house and down the road toward the forest.  He had no reason to think that, if his uncle had been returned to Eldamar, there would be any trouble; Maedhros had never harboured the sort of contempt and treachery that his father and some of his other uncles had, but Celebrimbor had broken from his family and disavowed the line of Fëanor long ago and he did not know how he might be received by his blood relations, or indeed how he might receive any of them after such a time.

After a while, he heard voices in the clearing where Elves of Tirion often went to spend a moment alone or with someone dear and musicians often went to play their songs more to the benefit of trees and woodland creatures than to other Eldar.  He decided to go that way and enquire if any had seen such a one as his eldest uncle.

He had no need to enquire, however, as when he approached the clearing, he could plainly see two Elves sat on the carved chairs.  One was Elrond, holding Maglor’s harp.  The other, red-haired and one-handed and exceedingly tall even as he sat, could be none other than the firstborn son of Fëanor.

As they were sat, Maedhros’s back was to Celebrimbor, but Elrond saw his cautious approach and made to draw his conversation with his foster-father to a close.  He was aware of the deep rift that had stood between Celebrimbor and his forebears since well before even Elrond’s blood-parents were born.  Elrond excused himself from the quiet clearing, saying that he had to pay a call on an old friend, but encouraged Maedhros to remain there for a time and rest, for being rehoused could be a strenuous experience.  Maedhros just gave Elrond a wry look, as if to ask how Elrond defined _strenuous_ , and sensing some other (benign) motive to the Peredhel’s unerringly polite retreat.

As Elrond departed the clearing, he caught Celebrimbor’s eye and gave him the smallest smile and nod, such that would only be perceived by another Elda.  Celebrimbor took it for encouragement that his uncle was well enough, not fey or grim and sullen as Celebrimbor sometimes remembered him.  Still, Celebrimbor kept his movement careful and his mien calm, as if approaching a cagey and lethal creature. 

“ _Atatoron_ ,” Celebrimbor said softly as he stepped into the clearing, surprised at how easily the Quenya had come to him after ages of disuse.

Maedhros had sat still after Elrond took his leave, having heard the coming of another but willing himself not to look around and openly display his uneasiness.  But now to hear that appellation there could be no doubt of who this newcomer was, for there was only one who had ever succeeded his own generation of the House of Fëanor.  Taking a breath, Maedhros slowly rose and turned, sensing his brother’s son’s cautiousness and hoping not to alarm him. 

How long had it been since he’d seen his only nephew!  Certainly since the days before Curufin and Celegorm took up places in Nargothrond.  Tall and strong, exceedingly handsome, his dark hair worn in a single, thick plait and his attire suggesting he was recently come from a forge-house, there was physically quite little about this Elf to deny his paternity.  But Maedhros had been little surprised when he had word from his nephew that he would not break faith with Orodreth, to whom he had sworn fealty upon refusing to follow his father any longer, declining to leave Nargothrond to join the union against Morgoth, though he would see Gwindor well-armed, whose host alone of Nargothrond came to the aid of Maedhros and suffered as heavily as any. 

“Telperinquar,” Maedhros said quietly.

“Your pardon,” Celebrimbor said, “but I no longer use that form.  Celebrimbor, I am.”

Maedhros couldn’t help but smile slightly.  Aye, this was the one who would be his own Ellon.  Maedhros inclined his head in acknowledgment.  “Celebrimbor, then.  You look well.  I had not thought to see any of our House here, in truth I know not why I am here myself, but if ever one could escape the Curse, I thought it might be you.”

Celebrimbor shook his head, though.  “Escaped, no.  Eluded, for a time, yes; but it struck me as it did all.  I have found my peace, now.”  Celebrimbor paused and stepped a little closer.  “When did you come?  Were any others rehoused?”

“Only just,” Maedhros said, finding himself wanting to be seated again, and maybe Elrond had been right about the trauma of being released from Mandos.  “None other was there when I awoke or when I was addressed by the Powers.  I woke at the foot of the mountains and followed the way toward the city before finding here Elrond Peredhel.  I am certain there is little here that I should recall even to my earliest memories.”  Maedhros heard the unspoken question behind the one Celebrimbor voiced, but he had never once heard a repentant word pass the lips of Curufin, Celegorm, or Caranthir any more than he had from their father and did not imagine that they might be rehoused until nearly all memory of their days had turned to dust and been blown away by a cool breeze. 

“I recalled nearly nothing upon my awakening here either,” Celebrimbor said sympathetically, now walking over to be seated beside his uncle.  “Forgive me if my welcome seems hesitant.  It has been long and I’m afraid there are some for whom old hurts are still remembered.”

“I understand, Tel- Celebrimbor,” Maedhros said.  “I came not with a purpose of seeking absolution.  Unless the Lords speak and tell me otherwise.  I think they have made a mistake, but after all this time, at last, I shall not gainsay their will.  I took no oath to that.  But I would have you know that I never held ill-will to you, nor saw you in your father’s shadow.  I respected your decision to stand against him.  I think it was well done, and I would that I had as much will as you the day I learned that my father was unworthy of my fealty.”

Celebrimbor was quiet for a long while then.  He had never realized that his uncle had been proud of him for choosing his own way, for which his father had hissed terms like ‘unnatural child’ and ‘craven’ at him before hastily quitting Nargothrond. 

“Many were the times I wished I had been born of you or Maglor, instead of Curufin,” Celebrimbor whispered, voicing something that he had never said to another.  “I think neither of you would have taken that oath in my name nor taken me from my mother’s side when I was too young to understand anything but following my father to whatever end.”

Maedhros reached out to clasp Celebrimbor’s hand in his.  “When I was certain you would not hear, I took your father to task mightily for that.  In truth, it had been my intention to send you back straight away regardless of his will.”  On the ship that should have been sent back for Findekáno, Maedhros thought bitterly.

Celebrimbor glanced down at his uncle’s hand on his and wondered that his other hand had not been remade with the rest of his hröa.  He himself had lost his left hand as Sauron tormented him for the location of the Rings of Power, only he had been remade whole.  Celebrimbor sighed. 

“Uncle, I know you never wished me hurt.  It is not I who still knows those old griefs I spoke of, but rather my husband.  He saw you as you passed our home along the road.  He dwelt in Menegroth in the First Age, you see….”

A faint light came into Maedhros’s eyes when Celebrimbor spoke of having a husband.  The only house he’d passed had been that green one with a garden all around, where there had been an Elf robed in green.  “Then it must have been your husband I saw in that fair garden….  Tell me, Celebrimbor… are you and he happy?”

“He is the only happiness I have ever known, uncle,” Celebrimbor said sincerely.  “And the only happiness I shall ever need.”

Maedhros held his nephew’s hand a little tighter.  “Then, I beg you, when you go home to him, ask if he will permit me to beg his pardon and offer him whatever service I may in payment of the wrongs I had done to his people.  And, if he will not, you must accept that and never let it come between you.  I would sooner remove myself and you can do without me as well as you have always done.  But you have found happiness and you must never do without that, not for the sake of any, no matter what kin they be.”

“You always did try to set things right, as did I,” Celebrimbor said.  “I will speak to Eres, and hope that his trust in me is enough to help him let go.  I warn you, though,” Celebrimbor said, a half-note of teasing just edging into his voice, “my husband drives a very hard bargain.  You may regret offering him redress before all is done.”

Maedhros shook his head but smiled.  “He could not ask of me a price too great in amendment for what was done there.  It sounds like you have found a good husband.” 

Celebrimbor nodded in agreement and then neither said more for a while, both wrapped in ancient memories.

“Celebrimbor… who else of old is here now?” Maedhros asked at length.

“Many dwell within the city,” Celebrimbor said.  “The Lords of the Houses of Finarfin and Fingolfin all dwell there.  Though, truly, lordship is no coin of the realm here.  Most of the Teleri still prefer the beaches and those Úmanyar who have come since have made homes in the woodlands south of the city.”

Celebrimbor saw the interest in his uncle’s eyes peak with the mention of the House of Fingolfin and had a feeling Maedhros’s thoughts had turned elsewhere.  He did not think his presence would be useful company just then, and decided to give him solitude in which he might debate with his bosom.  Clasping his uncle’s shoulder, he promised to vouch for him to Erestor, and assured him that he would come to know peace in Aman yet.


	3. Beloved

As Celebrimbor made his way back out of the clearing, Maedhros found himself alone with his thoughts again.  He felt deeply proud of his nephew and hoped dearly to meet one day the Elf he’d married. Whatever else their lives had dealt them, both his foster-son and his nephew had found love and happiness.  Maedhros knew far too well how very little anything else mattered.

When he’d told Celebrimbor that he’d meant to send him back from Losgar, believing the Elfling too young to be involved in Fëanor’s perilous enterprise and especially against his mother’s will, it had conjured such clear memories of a day he wanted nothing more than to burn from his recollection for all time. 

And the memory of Findekáno, who he would have brought along after returning young Celebrimbor to Araman… that raven-plaited hair, woven through with gold… that voice that had sung to him in so many dreams… and not a few nightmares.  

The days of ease and happiness they’d known here long before… the devastation of his father’s treachery… Findekáno’s unimaginable devotion, to the point of risking capture by walking alone up to Thrangorodrim to free him… the knowledge that his ruthless and power-mad brothers would never permit Fingolfin to reign in peace if he did not oversee the removal of the Fëanorians into the eastern lands….

And Findekáno, the Valiant, the ever-steadfast, come to his aid once again… and paying for his loyalty to an accurséd son of Fëanor with his life….

For a long while, Maedhros remained in the clearing, leaning upon his knees.  There were far too many memories and they gathered upon his shoulders, refusing to permit him to stand.  How could he possibly rise and walk up to that gleaming, grand city of his earliest days, knowing it was filled with Elves who had every right to hold him as culpable as his father for all their days of woe in Endor?  Where would he find welcome?  Perhaps he could seek for Elrond again and ask him for shelter.  It seemed the only option left to him, other than just staying where he was, but that option liked him not.    

Just as he was trying to convince himself to at least move toward the city, he noticed someone approaching the clearing again.  This place was certainly well-trafficked!  For a half-moment, he considered fleeing, before deciding there was no point in turning fugitive after all he’d seen and done already.  As Maedhros took a breath to collect himself, though, he saw it was only Elrond passing back the way he’d gone.

“Ah.  I’d thought perhaps you and your nephew might talk a bit longer,” Elrond said.  “I hope the meeting did not go poorly, but then, I think Celebrimbor rarely stays long where there is neither anvil nor Erestor.  Do you prefer to tarry here a while, or perhaps you will accompany me back to the city?  I should very much like to introduce you to my wife.”

Maedhros raised a brow when Elrond paused, wondering if he wasn’t going to continue the monologue.  “You clearly learned your manner of speech from Makalaurë,” he said.  “Yes, Elfling, I shall accompany you, and I thank you for the offer.”  

He decided not to mention that he’d felt the mental brush against his thoughts as Elrond approached – and now he so remembered that skill of his more Vanyan uncle! - and that clearly Elrond’s offer was meant to spare him the indignity of asking for sanctuary.  At least he and his brother had instilled empathy in their young charges, if naught else. 

“More than 6000 summers but to one I am yet an Elfling!” Elrond murmured.  “What a nice change that makes!”

“I think you shall always be ‘Elfling’ to me,” Maedhros said, resting his hand on Elrond’s shoulder.  “You know I could not tell you apart from Elros until you began to exhibit different skills and pursuits.  That is why I simply called you both Elfling.”

Elrond laughed deeply.  “Oh, yes,” he said, “I am eager indeed for you to meet my wife!  She will happily tell you stories of how alike we are.”

As he walked on toward Tirion with Elrond, Maedhros felt the weight upon his shoulders begin to lighten.  Maybe this wouldn’t be quite so bad after all.  At least, Elrond seemed happy to be reunited with him, and Celebrimbor was compassionate and willing to reconcile with some part of his lineage.  He had no way of knowing what awaited him as they passed together through Tirion’s open east gates, but not walking alone was a relief.

The city was full as he’d remembered it in his youth, yet much changed.  The people of Finarfin, those wise enough to turn back while they had the chance, had maintained the city well and built new dwellings and remade the old as needed.  It cannot have been easy with so many of their numbers, including the most gifted craftsmen, gone to exile, but they had done commendable work and the fairness of the city was none diminished.

The numbers seemed to have largely rebounded, as well.  Elves were everywhere: perched in windows, strolling the streets, gathered together around tables in the courts and squares.  Maedhros recognized few of them at a glance and supposed many of them to be followers of Finarfin or descendants of Fingolfin’s house who he hadn’t occasion to meet or know well in the elder days. But none turned to stare at him, either, though he had no cloak to conceal his abbreviated right arm and no hood to mask the fire of his hair.

“My home is just this way,” Elrond said, bearing left toward the southern quarter of the city. 

Maedhros followed along, doing his best not to stare at everything like a lost wanderer.  The street Elrond followed began to slope upward and curved around a crescent-shaped house that encompassed a marvelous fountain between its east and west wings.  The light playing through the flowing water seemed to dazzle Maedhros for a moment before he even became aware of the two Elves sitting in the grass by the fountain, one playing a flute, the other a harp. 

Looking down into that fountain courtyard, Maedhros’s breath caught for a long, frozen moment.  Findekáno appeared, in a word, magnificent.  He wore robes of a deep, metallic gray, embroidered all over in a millefleur of dusty pink, white, tan, and green flowers and the gold threads in his hair gleamed against his jet-black braids.  His eyes were lightly lidded as if he were following some beautiful vision as he played so sweetly upon his harp. 

The last time he’d laid eyes on Findekáno, all had been blood, both his own rust-red and the black blood of orcs, mud of the battlefield, charred bands crossing his broken body, and matter the nature of which Maedhros’s mind would not permit him to contemplate.  Here, unblemished and perfect, Findekáno could be the equal of any Maia.   

After a moment, Elrond realized that his foster-father was no longer following him and went back to where Maedhros stood staring at the court of Ecthelion, where the so-named erstwhile lord of Gondolin sat playing beside Fingon.

“Exceptional musicians, are they not?” Elrond said softly.  “Fingon, I think, second to none but Maglor at the harp.”

‘Second, perhaps,’ Maedhros thought, ‘except that once.’  “They look very… companionable,” he said quietly, and somewhat stiffly.

“Aye,” Elrond said.  “I believe they have much in common.”

Maedhros felt a stinging sensation, as if a flaming arrow had stuck him deep in the chest, as he looked upon the two dark-haired Elves, but forced his features to remain impassive.  “In common,” he echoed in a whisper, “that is good.”  Then he turned to Elrond again and said, “Come, you were showing me to your home, and I find you weren’t wrong about the struggle of being remade.  I grow weary.”

Down in the courtyard, Fingon was lost as often he was in the song he wove upon his harp.  After a time, he began to feel a presence that was difficult to ignore.  It was one he’d thought of and dreamt of too many times to count, but had little hope of experiencing again.  Finally, though, the feeling grew too near and too strong.  He glanced up and saw there on the street that ran up behind Ecthelion’s house a sight that left him stunned – that magnificent red hair, blazing like a wildfire in a sunset, walking away up the hill, a full head taller than Elrond Peredhel beside him. 

He stopped playing, leaving Ecthelion to carry the tune.  Indeed, Fingon’s fingers could scarcely feel the harp he held or marked as it fell away from his hands as he rose and slowly walked forward as one in a trance. 

“Maitimo…?” Fingon murmured, uncertain that he was not walking in a cruel, impossible vision.

No sooner did that old name leave his lips but Maedhros turned to look back down the hill at him.  This could not be just a vision, but he had to know, now hurrying, almost scrambling, up the slope.  He stopped just a few feet from the tall firstborn of Fëanor, momentarily lost for words as his gaze raked every inch of the Elf before him. 

“Are you real?  Are you back?” Fingon asked desperately, fear wrapped about him like that Balrog’s whip that Maitimo might answer that his return was only a temporary reprieve.

“It appears I am,” Maedhros said quietly.  Now he, too, stood as though he were transfixed and couldn’t take his eyes from Fingon.  His eyes began to fill with tears and he murmured, “You are so beautiful,” scarcely realising it.  He shook himself and dashed his tears away when Fingon’s eyes widened a bit.  “I am sorry, please forgive me,” he said quickly.

Fingon’s brows knit in a frown.  “Forgive you?  For what offense?”

Maedhros shook his head again and dropped his gaze.  “I’m certain your beloved wouldn’t appreciate another commenting upon your comeliness,” he muttered.

“And what beloved might that be?” Fingon asked. 

Maedhros glanced up, wishing Fingon wouldn’t play such a game with him, but reminding himself he deserved little better.  “That very handsome one, quite adept with the flute,” he said, looking toward the fountain courtyard where the dark-haired Elf robed in silvery blue sat watching their exchange with some interest.  He missed the smile that tickled the corners of Fingon’s lips.

“Ecthelion?” Fingon said, a note of laughter in his voice that drew Maedhros’s attention back.  “You fool.  Ecthelion awaits the day the Golden Flower he loves returns to these shores.  I have no beloved here to object to your compliments.  Indeed, I was resolved that I might never have a beloved here, for I had thought that he who I have loved most might never again walk in Eldamar.  Yet, before me he stands now… and yet I wait to be wrapped in his arms and fear so that he shall say he will stay not here, but return to death and Mandos….”

“You wait…?” Maedhros said in wonder.  “To be held in these arms, that have caused such grief and done such evil… and you, fairer than anything my ill-fated father could ever have wrought…?”

“Yes, your arms,” Fingon said as his own tears now running over with memories, “made imperfect by my own hand….  Have we not suffered enough, Maitimo?” he begged.

At the sight of Fingon’s tears, something deep inside Maedhros broke, like breaking the silmarilli that could have restored the light of Telperion and Laurelin.  He rushed forward and wrapped his arms around Fingon as tightly as he could.  “I might, by this, end your suffering, my beautiful, valiant Findekáno?” Maedhros whispered against Fingon’s forehead.

“By no other way, Maitimo,” Fingon wept, holding Maedhros as if he refused to ever be parted from him again.

“Then hold you I shall,” Maedhros whispered, then added in an unvoiced prayer, ‘and, _please_ , my Lord Manwë, let him be my salvation once again!’

A few steps up the hill, a fair-haired Elf appeared silently beside Elrond, slipping her hand into his and asking softly, “Dearest, who is it that Fingon embraces so desperately?”

Elrond glanced over at Celebrían, tears standing in his own eyes as he held her hand tightly.  “That is my adar, one of them, and I think his fëa has at long last found its healing.”


End file.
